


Decem Annorum

by KuraNova, mahbecks, RedHawkeRevolver



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Multi, Smutty trash, Stranger Danger Ardyn, angsty trash, because sad endings are not something trash pandas can handle, eventual promptis trash, fluffy trash, happy trash, light at the end of the tunnel trash, serious business trash, snarky trash, three times the trash, trash with feelings, written by trash pandas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-05 11:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10306214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuraNova/pseuds/KuraNova, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahbecks/pseuds/mahbecks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHawkeRevolver/pseuds/RedHawkeRevolver
Summary: They had too little left after losing so much. Their small band of friends was broken, battered, and lacked purpose without their King, but they had to hold out for the Dawn. They had to make sure they were ready to serve Noctis when the final night came. It was time to stand tall, bury the past and take back some of what was theirs.





	1. Shield

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all!  
> As you might have guessed, your three fairy trashpandas have gotten together to write a story for you. RedHawkeRevolver will be steering Ignis, mahbecks will be handling Gladio, and KuraNova will be leading Prompto around with cookies and chocobos.  
> This story follows our three bros in the ten years after Noctis' disappearance into the crystal. Expect to see some heavy themes within consisting of grief, loss, and death. Chapters will be tagged as appropriate in the notes.  
> Thanks for stopping by, and hope you enjoy!

Prompto sighed at the state of things. Nothing but grey as far as the eye could see. Grey and ruin. His home, Insomnia, felt so alien to him now after all the years he’d spent away, and even more so now that his prince wasn’t with him.

Huge, twisted beams of metal reached toward the black sky, the rusted out skeletons of a building Prompto thought might have been the Bank of Spira. It was hard to tell, really. He’d heard stories about the night Insomnia fell to the Empire, but he’d never really thought too much about what the horrors those poor people experiences actually looked like. Now it was staring him in the face and he couldn’t help the violent shudder of dread and unease that wracked his body.

It was a good thing Noct wasn’t here to see this. He couldn’t imagine what his friend’s reaction would be.

Slowly, he lowered his camera, finding it disrespectful to document these ruins, in this place, and looked around for Gladio and Ignis. They’d gone on ahead when he’d scaled the pile of rubble to get a better vantage point. He didn’t worry about them getting too far ahead of him. Ignis was still a bit slower than before even as he’d gotten used to his disability.

Looked like he was a shit judge of speed, though, cause Gladio had made quick time ushering Ignis through the streets below.

“H-hey! Wait up!”

Prompto hopped down the first few large slabs of concrete, paying no attention to the chink and slide of a small avalanche of debris he left in his wake as he scrambled down the pile.

- 

Gladio looked up when he heard Prompto call out, eyes searching the rubble that had once been Insomnia for his small, blonde friend. He snorted when he found the kid, half-walking, half-falling down a steep incline of gravel and refuse that had probably been a building.

“Come on,” he called back. “You fall behind, I’m not coming back for your ass!”

Prompto squawked indignantly at him.

He would do no such thing, of course. It was just the three of them now - him, Ignis, and Prompto. They were all that remained. No one was getting left behind - not if he could help it.

He faced forward, taking a few more steps to catch up with Ignis. They were close now; he could sense it. It was impossible to tell just from looking at the ruins of the once proud city, but he just had a feeling. They were nearing the center of the wreckage, the place from which all the destruction had emanated - the Citadel.

Gladio’s heartbeat sped up a little as he thought of the place he had used to call home. What would they find, he wondered? Was the building still standing, or had Niflheim razed it to the ground? He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

In a way, this was like coming home.

But also, it wasn’t.

He looked over to Ignis then, trying to see how the other was faring. The main thoroughfare they were on now was relatively clean of debris, allowing Ignis to walk unencumbered. Still, he moved cautiously, placing each foot tentatively, one in front of the other. Most days, it filled Gladio’s heart with pride to see Ignis moving with a shadow of his former grace and poise.

Other days, the bad days, it made his heart twist in anguish.

He hated to ask if the other was okay, knowing how it brought his pain front and center. And yet he couldn’t stop himself from asking, wanting, no, _needing_ , to know the other was still there, that he was still doing fine, that they were still there together.

He did so now, half-turning to the other man in the darkness, uncertain of the answer he would receive.

“Doing alright, Iggy?”

-

If it was the hundredth time he’d asked, it was the thousandth. And each time the question was posed, Ignis thought of the many things he could actually say, but never did.

_No, I’m not._

_I’m better off than I was._

_I’m better off than the dead._

_Stop asking._

“I’m fine.” Ignis took a deep breath after he answered, hoping the rough edges of his short temper didn’t show. Everything felt _short_ since the departure of the dawn. Temper, time, space. Everything felt too close to him now without sight, and it all seemed to move too fast while he moved too slow.

But he could hardly lament their presence here in the broken Crown City. It was his idea and he insisted on coming. Of course it had been an argument. Two actually. The old argument, that Ignis thought Gladio needed closure, something tangible to memorialize his father. And the new argument, born of Gladio’s protective instincts and hidden anxieties over losing one more thing dear to him, that daemons, danger and uncertainty were not things a blind man should court.

In bed, in each other’s arms, in Gladio’s dark and Ignis’ _normal,_ they tossed their differences of opinion on the matter back and forth and, as always, they ended up in the same place. The place they were now. Courting danger, in uncertain times… _with daemons breathing down their necks._

“Where is Prompto?” Ignis yelled suddenly and drew his daggers into his hands. The acrid smell of ichor, more pungent than it ever used to be, snaked its way into his nostrils before the other two seemed to sense anything was amiss. Prompto had called out, had fallen behind, _where was he?_

 _-_  

Prompto had just made it to the bottom of the rubble pile when he felt the telltale fission of magic and _wrongness_ crack through the air. He’d heard Ignis’ call just a second before the daemon materialized beside him. He ducked and rolled once, far enough away to get out of range of _mostly_ anything that could kill him in one swipe. Thankfully, though he probably wouldn’t be saying that later, it was only a hecteye.

It was the fact that it was alone that made Prompto wary. Hecteyes normally roamed in packs. Groups? Flocks?

Whatever.

He scrambled backwards, further out of range in the hopes of avoiding that weird laser _thing_ the daemon was so infamous for, and in no time he and Gladio met on the ruined pavement of an old freeway. Prompto conjured his gun from the ether, the familiar blue light in his hands serving only to remind him of what he’d lost.

How long had it been since he’d let go of Noctis - surrendered him to the crystal?

“Sorry!” he called over his shoulder to both of his friends. “Here now!”

It was easy enough to fall into step after that, allowing Gladio to rush in and distract the daemon while he took measured shots from the sidelines. He wasn’t used to having Ignis there, and he could sense that _he_ wasn’t used to being there, either.

He was immediately distracted by the sizzle of heat lancing across the pavement as the hecteye attacked Gladio - or tried to. Its single beam of searing light missing his behemoth of a friend entirely. Prompto took that moment to line up a perfect shot, keen on taking out one of the daemon’s largest eyes, before he squeezed the trigger of his gun.

The bullet shot through the air with a low whistle, a hollow point, and exploded into the hecteye’s gelatinous body with a wet, slurping noise. Bullets normally weren’t so effective because of the lack of, well, _bones and arteries_ , but firing often was enough to slow ‘em down enough to let Gladio take care of it.

-

“Nice one!”

Gladio followed up Prompto’s attack with a massive swing of his greatsword, the blade hitting the hecteye square in the… face? Midsection? He wasn’t sure. Regardless of what part of its anatomy he had hit, it shuddered violently, and he followed up with another swing. The second blow did the creature in, and he straightened as it dissipated into nothingness.

He looked up warily, uneasy that there had only been one of the daemons. It was rare to only encounter one at a time - the things usually traveled in groups, save for the biggest and baddest ones out there. But he saw nothing else to indicate another daemon’s presence, and with some hesitance, he relaxed his posture.

He turned towards Prompto. “You alright?” he asked, eyeing the blonde for injuries.

Prompto nodded, giving him a weak smile, and he turned around, instinctively seeking out Ignis to make sure he too was unharmed. He needn’t have worried though - the man was standing near Prompto, one of his daggers at the ready, crouched down into a fighting stance. The blonde murmured something to him then and he eased into a more normal pose, though Gladio was quick to note he didn’t release the dagger.

They were alright. Safe.

He withheld a sigh of relief as he strode over to the two of them, making his footsteps loud enough that Ignis could tell he was approaching. “Let’s go,” he said quietly. “Before another one of those things catch us.”

The other two nodded, and together, the three of them set off, once again heading towards the middle of the city. Prompto was careful to keep up this time, matching his strides with Ignis’ as they walked. Gladio stayed a little ahead of his friends, more cautious now that they’d been attacked. He had always preferred to be in front - he was the biggest, the strongest, the one who could take a hit and keep on fighting. It was habit, really; he’d gotten accustomed to walking in front of Noctis as his Shield, shielding him from spawning daemons as they’d trekked across Eos, and now…

Well, the routine had simply carried over to his other friends.   

-

Three city blocks to the Citadel stretched out before them. A walk long enough to recite half of the Cosmogony in his head. The silent recitation was preferable to focusing on the sounds of distant unknowns and ruminating over the _nothing_ he could do about it. Ignis was still getting used to the idle edge on which he was constantly perched now when his companions fought. Unwilling to hide but unable to help in any effective way, he felt tense from vulnerability and irritated by inaction.

He did his best to shake off the nerves of battle as he named out the Hexatheon one by one in time with the heavy footfalls of Gladio in front of him and the lighter step of Prompto beside. The stagnant air was broken by a thin breeze when they reached the once towering, now half crumbled icon of Insomnia. Gladio quickened his step a little and Ignis heard his greatsword moving with him. He asked Prompto to describe the condition of the building and the younger man obliged in whispered clipped sentences halted by emotion that Ignis could tell he was trying to conceal.

Ignis stopped walking when the others did, at the bottom of the grand staircase. He sensed no tangible enemy impeding their progress, though they all had more than few internal daemons to fight that could just as easily stop them in their tracks. Considering why they were here, of the three of them, Gladio was likely the most affected by the doubt and hesitation. His father’s shield was somewhere inside the battered palace and they were going to retrieve it. They were going to retrieve something meaningful, something worthwhile, even if it meant killing every daemon in their way, be it in front of them or inside them.

“We should not linger out in the open.” Ignis spoke loud enough for Gladio to hear, but hopefully not loud enough to draw attention from hidden threats. When he heard no footsteps advancing, he moved on his own, upwards. He took only two steps before Gladio huffed and pushed ahead of him again. Prompto lightly touched at his arm to guide him as they ascended.

Ignis counted out one hundred and fifty two steps to the top. He knew exactly how many there were, having counted them endless times in the past. He knew how many crests lined the walls of the entry, how many marble floor tiles led to the main elevators, and how many seconds it took for the gilded doors to slide open. Strange that his mind held onto these things. Strange that it was knowledge he’d accumulated in passing when he’d had his sight and now it aided him after he’d lost it. He wondered what the others were thinking as they moved through the shadows of their past. They could _see_ it. Was it more real for them? Were the memories more raw?

-

“I know I didn’t live here like the two of you did but,” Prompto paused, taking in the ruined hallway with wide eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

He kept close to Ignis, who seemed to know where he was going after what prompto assumed was years of habit. His familiarity with the space was much more limited, though it was plain to see the changes in the building from the day of their departure, years ago, to what he was looking at now.

A thick layer of dust had settled over the furniture and the floor, though it was not enough to hide the large, dark stains that spread beneath the runner leading toward elevator, nor the spray of bullet holes in the marble paneling of the walls. Prompto didn’t _want_ to think about what had happened in this very room. He didn’t _want_ to think about the odd, dust-covered shapes drawn off to the room’s perimeter.

He didn’t want to, but he still understood.

This citadel had transformed from a beacon of the crystal’s light, something he’d always looked to for comfort as a child and Noctis’ home, to a tomb. He was standing on the very spot where people had _died_ . Where people had been _murdered_. And for the first time since Gralea he felt like he might by physically ill from the weight of that understanding.

Again, he thought, he was glad Noctis wasn’t here. He would have never wished this feeling on his friend, especially considering where they were going and what they had come to do.

Of all of them, Prompto thought perhaps Gladio was the best prepared to see … someone he knew. Gladio was, after all, a Shield. He’d been groomed from childhood to replace his father, though he wasn’t sure anyone really thought a whole lot about their parents dying, no matter how prepared they were supposed to be.

He wondered, often, about his own parents. Not his real ones, obviously, he’d taken care of that months ago. But his adopted parents, they might still be alive. He hadn’t seen them in Lestallum, or in Hammerhead. It was probably stupid to think they _might_ still be around after _everything_ , but he resolved that he would look for them once they’d returned to civilization. He owed them so much, and he wanted to thank them for everything - everything they never had to do, were never obligated to do, for him.

“Gladio, have you heard from anyone who- who, ah, made it out?” he asked, realizing about halfway through that sentence that it was a _horrible_ time to ask a dumb question like that.

Hardly anyone had been that fortunate. Almost everyone in Lestallum was from the Duscae region. Stragglers from Insomnia were usually caught up by daemons long before they ever reached safety. It was a strange and scary world they lived in now, and the eternal night was disconcerting even as long as he’d lived with it.

He didn’t even _need_ sunlight. Not like normal people. COnsidering he _wasn’t_ normal people, that was hardly a surprise.

He breathed slowly out through his nose, stirring the particles in the air in front of him, and tried to concentrate on why they were here. He needed to focus, for Gladio’s sake. He would offer his support, even if the big guy would never admit that he needed it.

-

Prompto’s question caught him off-guard.

“Anyone who made it out?” he repeated, his words echoing in the vast halls.

Iris. Iris had made it out alive - she, and Jared, and Talcott. They had survived, fled to Lestallum.

Words couldn’t describe the pain and fear he’d experienced when they’d first learned of Insomnia’s fall. The nightmares those first few nights had been… terrible. He’d awoken drenched in sweat, shivering, retching, Ignis rolling over to place a comforting hand on his back until the tremors that had wracked his frame had stopped. The thought of his little sister and the others, trapped in a dying city… he’d forced such things away, compartmentalized everything, not allowed himself to contemplate them for too long.

He had had a job to do, and worrying would lessen his ability to do that job.

But then he’d learned that a precious few had survived, and it was like sucking in a breath of fresh air. It had given him hope, a lingering faith that perhaps things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

It was the same hope that he now heard in Prompto’s question.

“All I know is what Iris told me,” he finally replied. “You should call her.”

It wasn’t a good answer. But it was all he could give at the moment. He had a purpose in coming in here, and he was so close to it now.

He turned down a hallway, heading deeper into the tomb the Citadel had become, searching for signs of what had happened on the day their world had shattered. It was so strange - large parts of the palace were intact, virtually untouched save for a heavy layer of dust, a random dark stain on the floor. But others were damaged, wounded by artillery shells and blunt force alike, ruined almost beyond recognition.

There was a dark shape on the floor ahead, and Gladio froze. He heard rather than saw Ignis draw up short beside him, though the other didn’t ask why they had stopped. Who was it, Gladio wondered, sprawled on the floor like that, broken, dead? He didn’t want to know.

He had to know.

He stepped forward, his movements slow, mechanical, and he slowly recognized the dark outfit Regis had worn as King. His throat tightened painfully, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he took in the broken skeleton of the man to whom his father had dedicated his entire existence.

It was almost better that Noctis wasn’t here. He shouldn’t have to see this.

Regis’ body lay just outside a crumbling door, the wood hanging cracked and splintering on its hinges. It looked like it would turn to dust beneath his fingertips if he applied any pressure to it. To his surprise, it held when he pushed it open, revealing the small room just beyond.

What he saw then took his breath away, literally, the air catching in his throat, and he almost fell to his knees in sheer, staggering shock.

_No, no no no no no no -_

“Dad,” he breathed. His voice broke on the word, cracking.

The body of Clarus Amicitia was not lying on the floor with the others. He had not been shown the mercy of a quick, kind death, not been allowed to die beside his friend, his King. Instead, he had been pinned to the far wall, impaled upon his own sword, life’s blood staining the already dark walls beneath him darker.

He heard someone gasp behind him - Prompto, most likely. He could not respond, all of his strength focused on forcing his legs into the room.

“What is it?” Ignis murmured, so quietly Gladio almost didn’t hear him. Prompto quickly rattled off an answer, stumbling over his words in his shock. Gladio didn’t blame him for stuttering - he couldn’t have even managed one word, let alone a sentence.

He stopped just below his father’s broken body, staring up in utter incomprehension. He had never stopped to think about how his father had died, never allowed himself to grieve, to mourn. There hadn’t been time, and he had had his own King to protect.

But now…

A dark, inconsolable rage filled him - or maybe it was a pitiful, hollow sorrow flooding his mind. He couldn’t tell which it was.

Dimly, he recognized fresh blood dripping onto the floor, and he unclenched his fist, looking down at it in surprise. His fingernails had cut into the skin, leaving tiny red crescents in the calloused skin.

He could not feel them.

He did feel the hot tears burning his eyes, blurring his vision, and the hard lump in his throat, restricting his breathing. When he drew breath, it was a great, rattling gasp, a harsh ugly noise that somehow fit the room.

Later on, he could not recall how long he stood there. It could have been moments, and it could have been hours. Eventually, his friends came to join him, Prompto reaching up to put a hand on his shoulder, Ignis reaching down and lacing their fingers together. They stood there with him, silent sources of comfort, lending him what little support they could give, what tiny amounts of solace their tired, weary souls could still offer.

It was enough.

It was more than enough.

Gladio raised his free hand sometime later, wiping his face clean in one swipe and taking a deep breath. It was a little easier now, though the ache within his heart was no less acute. It was better, now that he had seen what had happened, some measure of closure working its way through him. Now he knew - now he could grieve.

Prompto shifted then, and the light from his flashlight sparked off something shiny on the floor.

Gladio looked down, and to his surprise, saw his father’s old shield lying there. It was the silver embossed onto the black steel that had caught the light, shimmering despite its age and condition. He let go of Ignis’ fingers then, bending down to grab the shield. It was cold to the touch, like ice against his skin. But it fit.

It _fit._

He drew it on his arm, using the straps to fix it into place. It was heavy, but not uncommonly so, and made for a man of his stature.

It was his now, he supposed, drawing the shield in close to his body like the treasure that it was. It was the only thing of his father’s he possessed - everything else had been given him by the Crown, or bought with his own money. This was as much a relic of their family as anything, a last, tenuous link to the man who had raised him.

He would wear it with pride.

Gladio turned back to his friends. Both were facing him, posture tense and uncertain. They were waiting for him, he realized, waiting until he was ready to leave. But they couldn’t leave yet, he thought, looking around at the bodies littering the ground. It didn’t seem right, leaving the fallen members of the Crownsguard in such ill repose. Nor, he reasoned, was he willing to let his father’s body hang there upon the wall like a gruesome tapestry of blatant disrespect.

“Come on,” he said, taking a step towards the others.

“Let’s bury our friends.”


	2. Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys lay to rest the King, his Shield, and their friends. Meanwhile, Ardyn shows up to offer up a useful bit of information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love, friends! We really appreciate the comments and kudos and hope you continue to enjoy reading this story as much as we enjoy writing it.
> 
> On that note:  
> I'm really sorry.  
> Really.  
> Sorry.

Ardyn watched for a long time from just outside the doorway. _Honestly_ , he wondered how the trio of kingless urchins hadn’t noticed him already. Had his soul become so black as to blend in with these dank surroundings? There was a thought. Though he was loathe to flatter himself. The _dear_ boys were merely distracted by the task of un-skewering family members from the tapestries. _Such_ a chore, and he would know.

His gaze drifted briefly over his shoulder, toward the dead king decaying all over the carpet. It was a _shame_ , really. Regis had been so _unique_ for his line - honest, fair, _kind_ . Ardyn would have loved to pester him a little longer, perhaps dangle his _beloved_ son’s mortality in front of him for a few more weeks just to savor the agony that would show on that perfect face.

 _Perfect, lovely faces_ . Each and every one of Lucis’ rulers had inherited _that face_ . It made Ardyn want to set the king’s corpse on fire. He wanted to watch his broken body turn to ash and crumble beneath his fingers. He wanted to _erase_ those faces from history so that the only encounter he would ever have with them again would be within his memory.

But he wasn’t expecting to live long enough to enjoy it, anyway. Soon Noctis would wake, and this travesty of an epoch would be over and, Ardyn fervently hoped, death was just a great yawning _nothingness_ in which he might _finally_ be able to get some peace.

Unclenching the fist he’d not remembered making, Ardyn gathered his wits about him. What was left of them, anyway, and turned away from Regis’ corpse. He focused a moment to place the perfect sardonic smirk on his face before sweeping into the treaty room, kicking up a _lamentable_ amount of dust and grime. Idly, he hoped it wouldn’t _ruin_ his cravat. How on Eos was he supposed to have it cleaned? It wasn’t as if he could take it to anyone with skill any longer.

_Excuse me, good sir, but would it be a terrible inconvenience for you to work out this stain? Oh, I know I’m the Accursed and ruined your life, and likely reduced everyone you know and love into witless, slobbering daemons, but we can’t all be perfect, can we? You’d be doing me such a favor!_

Honestly.

Pushing himself out of his head for the moment, Ardyn waited until his dear little urchins all turned to look at him - well, all but _one_ \- before he chuckled lowly. “Just _look_ what the coeurl dragged in! So nice of you boys to visit.” He flashed his teeth in a mocking smile. “How do you like the decor? It’s _all_ the rage, these days.”

-

“I wouldn’t know of course, but perhaps it could use a bit of color? Gladio’s genji blade could do the job of spearing _you_ up there to help with that.”

Ignis knew his first reaction should have been to prevent Gladio from doing exactly what he suggested but the words just came out of his mouth before logic could stop them. It came as no surprise to him that Ardyn was once again prodding at them like rats in a maze. The resistance they’d encountered thus far in the city was miniscule. The hunters were reporting exponential increases in daemons by the day in all corners of Lucis, so the fact that only one pathetic hecteye stumbled across their path to the Citadel was clearly the work of the Chancellor. Ignis wondered by what means he was able to hold back the hoards. Or if he was simply so vile in and of himself that lesser daemons scattered at the sight of him.

When Ignis heard Prompto quick draw and cock his pistol, he knew what the next sound would be. A sword fizzled into solid form and a roar of indignation accompanied the swing of it as it hissed through the air. Ignis moved to intercede, grateful nothing hindered his quick steps, and he placed himself between Ardyn and Gladio.

“This accomplishes nothing.” He said loudly, trying to cut through Gladiolus’ blind pain. The blade stopped short, as Ignis knew it would, but he could still feel the magic on it hovering above him.

“ _Move_ Iggy.” The rightful King’s Shield growled. “Or I’m gonna move you and fucking _skewer_ this asshole.”

Ignis raised his hand in an attempt to cool Gladio’s understandable ire. He sympathized, but if he’d come to understand anything across their numerous interactions with Ardyn it was that the man always sought to draw them into his overwrought theatrics. Whether it was simply for idle amusement or if it actually served whatever his twisted goals were, Ignis couldn’t say, but he would not be tugged like a puppet on a string any longer.

“He isn’t worth sullying your sword, Gladiolus. We came here with a purpose.” Ignis tilted his head to address Ardyn. “And unless _you_ plan on impeding us in some way, we’re going to finish our task.”

-

“Be still, my ancient, shriveled heart. A voice of _reason_ , as _always_.” Ardyn finished with a rumble and, like a true thespian, tugged Ignis’ slim fingers toward himself to place them over his heart. If he still had one. Ardyn had never exactly _looked._ “But of course, you _could_ always hit me with that _big_ _sword_ of yours, but I fear it wouldn't do much good. I'm immortal, remember?” There was a pause then, and his grip tightened suddenly around Ignis’ wrist. “I'd never dream of stopping you.”

-

The fingers were frigid and skeletal on Ignis’ wrist and a seeping dread spread through him from their point of contact. It made bile rise up in his throat and rage surge through his gut. Part in anger and part in self-preservation, Ignis snatched his hand away. Acting on yet another base instinct, he reared back his arm and let it fall with as much force as he could muster in a backhand right across Ardyn’s face. The sound of a dead-on hit and the sting in his hand from the strike was more satisfying than he thought anything had ever felt in his life. He only regretted he couldn’t see the look on his face.

-

The resounding sound of an open palm striking flesh made Gladio stop dead in his tracks.

Ignis had… Ignis had _slapped_ Ardyn Izunia.

It was unlike Ignis to lash out like that, and in his surprise, Gladio’s sword almost disappeared from his fingers. He held onto it at the last second, keeping it materialized and at the ready in front of him. This man was evil, pure evil - he couldn’t let his guard down, now or ever. His anger returned when he realized what Ardyn had said to Ignis, that Ardyn had _touched_ him the way a lover would.

“Keep your hands off him,” he snarled, taking a step forward.

“Gladio-” Ignis began, a warning in his tone.

-

Ardyn rubbed his cheek where Ignis had slapped him, looking a little petulant and not at all sorry. “Now _that_ was uncalled for. And here I thought it was the _large_ one that always resorted to violence.”

-

“Shut up,” Gladio snapped towards the chancellor. “Touch him again, and I’ll cut your fucking hand off.”

The man giggled at that, actually _giggled,_ as if Gladio hadn’t just threatened to amputate one of his limbs. Gods, he hated this man - hated everything about him, from the stupid, smug grin on his face to his stupid, _fucking_ hat, sitting there jauntily atop his strange, red hair. He hated what he had done to them, what he done to the world, what he had done to Noctis. And now he was toying with them, toying with _Ignis_?

No.

“What do you want?” he demanded then, staring the man down.

-

Ardyn smirked, cocking his head to the side as he made a show of thinking over his response to Gladiolus’s question. The truth was that he hadn't _really_ thought about why he had approached the boys. He just _so_ loved to make them _squirm_. Perhaps this time he would throw them a bone they could gnaw on for a good long while.

“Well, I was passing by, you see, and thought to myself that you all were so abruptly without young Noct last we met. Did he happen to mention where he was going?”

Ardyn began to pace a very slow, meandering circle around the boys, hands at his sides, but fingers twitching as he spoke. He was nearing Prompto first, and was perversely delighted by the frightened little tremor that shook the boy’s body. Interestingly enough, the scared little thing was eying him with a defiance that, dare he say, reminded him of himself.

In his younger days, _of course_.

“Noct is in the crystal,” Prompto said, the firmness in his voice wavering slightly with uncertainty.

Ardyn chuckled, grinning to show his teeth. “Ah, you _were_ paying attention. Here I had thought you might have been _short circuiting_ at the time.”

Prompto flinched violently and took a step back from Ardyn. In another display of false bravery, he had once again leveled his gun at Ardyn’s head.

The Accursed rolled his eyes, and with a flash of speed snatched the barrel of the gun and placed the cold cylinder of metal against his forehead.

“Is that better?” Ardyn cooed, like he was trying to calm a frightened child.

Prompto yanked his hand away, and scurried back toward Ignis leaving the gun to dematerialize in the space between he and Ardyn.

To that, Ardyn merely shrugged, and turned his attention back to the others. “Sweet little Noctis is in the _world_ of the crystal. The gem itself is safe here with me, in the citadel, but I have it on good authority our sleeping beauty will wake in a place under Bahamut’s protection.”

He raised his hand to examine his fingernails, feigning nonchalance.

“You have heard of Angelgard? That is where Noctis will return to us.” He smiled at them all, candidly, eerily. “But who _knows_ when that will be. You might all be dead by then.” His eyes bore into Ignis, purely for Gladiolus’s benefit. “So you all may wish to make his awakening easier by, _perhaps,_ providing him something to make the swim more enjoyable in the event you are absent. _Oh,_ that is assuming our little prince _can_ swim.”

Feeling as though his generosity had been taxed enough for the day, Ardyn swept into a theatrical bow. “I do fear I may have said too much. Life isn't nearly as fun when one is given _all_ the answers. _You're welcome_.” He began to leave, then paused and addressed them all one final time. “And good luck!” His sing-songy almost-threat echoed in the air as he took his leave, but not before wagging his eyebrows suggestively in Gladio’s direction.

-

Ignis clenched his teeth, but remained silent as Ardyn’s footsteps seemed to dance away from them. He felt Gladio loom dangerously as if he meant to follow and follow through with severing one of the man’s limbs. Ignis reached out and placed his hand on Gladio’s chest in an effort to still the savage beast. After a few moments, the tension receded and his breathing slowed.

Ardyn may have physically left them, but the stench of him remained. Like spoiled milk, it clung inside Ignis’ nostrils and he had the urge to dip his hand in fire to burn off the lingering sensation of his touch. When Gladio’s hand came to rest atop his, though, it did the job of clearing away most of Ignis’ disgust. It allowed him to think clearly on what Ardyn had said. Though loathe to trust him, as always, just like in Gralea, if it helped them to help Noct, Ignis would take any information he could and try to put it to good use.

“If it is Bahamut that will guide Noctis back to the corporeal world, then the prison at Angelgard _is_ the most likely place for him to return. The island is untouched by daemons. Unfortunately it has also been untouched by man for centuries. And I will not have the Chosen King _swim_ back to shore.”

“Do you- Do you think we will be dead? By the time Noct comes back, I mean.” Prompto mumbled, still shaken by the encounter with Ardyn.

“We’re not that easy to kill and I choose to believe we’re too stubborn to die. No matter how long it takes him to return, _and he will return,_ we must be prepared. It won’t be easy, but we should be able to get King Regis’ boat there and leave it docked for Noctis to use. The longer we delay however, the more difficult it will be to travel the distance in the dark. The roads get more perilous by the day, and there are precious few outposts left between here, Caem and Galdin. We should make haste. We can bury His Majesty, Master Clarus and as many of our brethren as we are able in the Citadel’s catacombs. In his wanderings as a child, Noctis explored the lower levels quite a bit, and I with him. I’ll lead as best I can. Hopefully the Chancellor will deign to leave us be, though I seriously doubt it.”

-

Gladio snorted. “One reason,” he muttered. “That's all I need. I'll pop his head off like a fucking chicken.”

Ignis snapped at him to be quiet and start working.

Reluctantly, a last dark look shot off in the direction the chancellor had taken, he obeyed.

They managed to find several yards of old, mostly intact fabric in a side room - curtains, perhaps, or ceremonial banners. These they filled with as many of the decaying bodies of their fallen comrades as they could carry, taking care to keep each as intact as possible. Once they had gathered up the filled fabric in their arms, they set off, Ignis leading the way down to the catacombs, hand trailing along the wall as he traversed the halls, only his memories for guidance.

It took them the better part of half an hour to find the stairs leading down into the earth, and from there, the going was even slower. The tombs were hewn straight from stone, the ground rough and uneven, and Ignis moved more cautiously than usual so he didn’t stumble as he led them.

As they progressed, Gladio noticed recesses carved into the rock, rectangular spaces slightly longer than a tall human male. Some of the niches were filled with preserved bodies, and some were empty; others were filled with various urns and tokens, relics of the former protectors of the Crown. It was odd seeing them, Gladio thought, strange to see the bodies of people who had given their lives serving the Crown. Would he have been buried down here eventually, had he died in service? Would his father?

He should ask Ignis. He would know all about the history of these tombs. He couldn’t bring himself to do it though; it felt wrong to speak in this place, as if he were breaking some sacred silence.

Towards the end of the passage, they found a section of wall with several empty recesses. Gladio reached out a hand to stop Ignis, suggested that they place the bodies here where there was room for them. 

“Room?” Ignis asked sharply. “These tombs should be filled with the bodies of soldiers from the fifth century.”

Gladio blinked. “They’re empty,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing there.”

-

Prompto hummed to himself, feeling itchy the further they got into the dank, musty place. He’d never been into catacombs before of any kind. He hadn’t even remembered hearing about a place like this in school. Curious, but not curious enough to stray far from Gladio and Ignis, Prompto examined their surroundings with a horrified sort of fascination.

“I’m okay with just a couple,” he warbled, trying not to look at a particularly close skull right in its eye sockets. Even without a real gaze, Prompto still felt like he was being examined somehow, and that crawling, itchy feeling beneath his skin intensified.

Would he look like this when he died? Had the Empire taken Magitek that far, or would his skin rot away to reveal a metal husk of clicking gears and sparking wires? Damn Ardyn for bringing his insecurities to mind. He’d been trying his hardest to forget - to push it away.

He thought after Noct and the others had said it didn’t matter, that he could begin to go back to normal. Clearly, he was wrong.

Prompto breathed a sigh of musty air and followed Ignis’ direction and, with Gladio’s muscle, managed to place the King and his Shield near each other in a few of the open recesses carved into the walls here. The others followed shortly after, laid to rest with the same reverence as the first. Prompto didn’t personally know any of the others and, to be honest, he’d only spoken with Regis in passing and barely said a word to Clarus.

He sort of wished he’d taken the time to know them better now.

‘Sorry,’ he apologized silently to Regis as Ignis and Gladio spoke in hushed tones nearby. ‘I said I’d look out for Noctis and I-. I guess I lied. But I promise, if- _when_ , he does come back, I’ll stand by his side and give him everything of me. I’ll be sure he becomes a good king. Like you.’

“Let’s get going, Prompto,” Gladio rumbled beside him, landing a heavy hand on his shoulder in a rare gesture of comfort.

“Yeah.” He nodded, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Let’s go make sure Noct isn’t totally helpless when he wakes up. Y’know how groggy he gets.”

Gladio snorted in what Prompto could only assume was agreement, and a fond remembrance of Noct. “Yeah.”

-

Ardyn heard the boys leave the crypt after, _bless them_ , laying the dear old King and his Shield to rest. How _sweet._ How _selfless_.

It simply would _not_ do.

“I really am _too_ generous,” he said to no one in particular, though his eyes gazed down at the visage of Izunia beneath him.

He lay atop a bronze slab bearing the likeness of his betrayer upon a pedestal in the shape of a coffin. Izunia was not, of course, buried _here_ , but Ardyn could appreciate the sentiment of Noctis’ forebears. They had, after all, afforded him the opportunity to deface the slab with alacrity. He was in the process of scratching away the right eye, mutilating Izunia’s _perfect_ features as he kicked his feet back and forth like a school boy, when he heard the trio’s steps fade away up the stairs.

Certain that he could go on with his business unimpeded by willful youth, Ardyn shoved himself up from the monument and slid to the floor. He really was a _very_ busy man, and had little time to waste if he was going to whip the citadel up into perfect readiness for Noctis’ arrival.

“Tata, my darling!” He sing-songed to the effigy as he waltzed out of the room.

Ardyn was familiar with these graves, had been for several centuries, but it was only recently he’d the chance to traipse about the narrow corridors as if he owned them.

Well, he reasoned, he supposed he did. After all, _he_ was the King of Lucis now, at least until sweet little Noctis rose from his nap with the Draconian. Even without the crystal he was capable of keeping Insomnia under wraps. He laughed at himself, the echo if his voice ricocheting off the walls. There was no one here to cause trouble, after all. As he made his way through the twists and turns of the catacombs toward where the boys had been, and delightedly swept up the skeletal head of someone named Cordatus. Odd name, but that’s what the plaque had read. Ardyn honestly couldn’t judge.

“What’s on the schedule today, Ardyn?” He spoke, his voice an octave higher than usual as he puppeted the skull to make it appear as though it was speaking. Ardyn’s middle finger curled up inside the opening through which the spinal cord ran to hold the skull in place while he manipulated the jaw with his thumb and forefinger.

“We’ve a very busy day ahead of us,” he replied, voice dropping back down into his natural register. “We’re expecting a guest.”

“A guest!” Ardyn’s voice went back up again. “But we haven’t entertained in centuries!”

“Oh, but this will be _so_ much fun, Cordatus. Noctis is a _delightful_ young man, and I _do_ so want to give him a _proper_ welcome home.”

“How nice of you!”

“Oh, I _know_ . I’m so busy, but I just can’t let the poor boy return to this _mess_ . You know,” Ardyn paused, finally coming upon the recently buried bodies of both the late King and his Shield, “I recall reading somewhere that in order to make a person feel at home, one must surround that individual with _familiar_ things.” Ardyn’s smile grew as he eyed Regis’ corpse and laughed again, a quiet, dark sound that made the atmosphere somehow heavier than before.

Ardyn set Cordatus down in the alcove next to where Regis lay and leaned in to peer over the King. “I can’t have sweet Noctis see you like _this,_ Your Highness. He’ll dissolve into fits.” In one, surprisingly strong, move, Ardyn hefted the late King’s dead weight into his arms. “Never fear, though. With a bit of magic, I’ll have you feeling like your old self. Oh! And I nearly forgot! The Oracle herself has dropped in to grace us with her presence. She’s a bit waterlogged but,” He shrugged, jostling the body in his arms, “I’m sure she’ll dry out by the time Noctis arrives. That dress of hers, though.” Ardyn tsked, shaking his head as if greatly offended. “I’m afraid silk and seawater simply _don’t_ mix. A shame. It was so lovely, especially in _red._ ”

As Ardyn carried the corpse up to the throne room, he began to hum a tune he remembered hearing from his childhood. It was a nursery rhyme, sung in a language the people of this world had long forgotten, but as it filled the empty halls, Ardyn threw himself into his work and prepared for the arrival of the Chosen King.

_“Sing a song of sixpence,_

_A pocketful of rye._

_Four and twenty blackbirds,_

_Baked in a pie._

_When the pie was opened,_

_The birds began to sing_

_Wasn’t that a dainty dish,_

_To set before the king?_

_The king was in his counting house,_

_Counting out his money;_

_The queen was in the parlour,_

_Eating bread and honey._

_The maid was in the garden,_

_Hanging out the clothes;_

_When down came a blackbird_

_And pecked off her nose.”_


End file.
